To The Whitman Reader

As the breath of this poet still today stirs in our wind

And rises from these grounds he once walked upon

We eat of the fruits that grow from this same earth

Where his flesh returned its gifts into the motherland

Our inheritance, are his words, and his soul, gifts to us

By simply h’ve been born here, as man

Read his words and let not a single one pass

Allow its calligraphy paste onto your lids

Allow them into you, all that he had

Let not a phrase go by

Without seeing all that’s hidden inside

Masked are its meanings, the beauty underlies

Leave its prose with your heart, not un-entwined

Without hesitance, this lover, in all his frailty of heart

Still today takes on the weight of those souls the same

And breeds in them the confidence of like-minded lives

Breathe in his heavenly words, breathe them deep

Take with you, into you, all of their meaning

Never to be again the same, nor again to see the same

Become the poet, to dance like him, upon wings of the wind

And see through any injustices of man,

Admirations, and tears of the Divine

Write with his soul in yours, simply because you can

Read, and let not a single trophy’d word escape

Breathe poets! Our souls and his, the same…

ⓒ 2005 Shawn Michael Quinn

Shit

Irritable Bowel Syndrome (with constipation)
That’s what they call it
Shit!
That’s what I’d like to call it
But I can’t

Because I can’t
Shit… that is
My ass doesn’t work for me
I have to shit, but I can’t shit
I used to lay awake sometimes at night in pain
Because I couldn’t shit
“Who does number two work for?”
“Yeah, you show that turd who’s boss!” (ap)
Obviously, I’m not the fucking boss
Fuckin’ Shit!

I get gas when I eat
When I drink
No matter what I eat
No matter what I drink
It doesn’t matter
I don’t want to go out to eat on dates
Because of it
You can’t have sex
When you’re gassy or bloated or constipated
Or you have diarrhea
I never know what to expect
Sometimes I try to shit
And only rectal mucous comes out
It’s slimy just like regular mucous
But it smells like horrid shit!
Fuckin’ Shit!

Another moment in time…

I have to shit, for days, on end
And my stomach begins to hurt like hell
So I go to the doctor for it
He feels my stomach
And tells me I’m “literally F.O.S.”
I say, “What’s that?”
He says “You’re Full Of Shit!” and laughs…
He thinks he’s funny!
Fuckin’ Prick!
Then he asks me, “when you go, is it hard?
And I answer him curtly “Well, it aint easy doc!”
He laughs and tells me I’m a pisser!
I say “Yeah, but I’m here as an aspiring shitter, think you can help or what, doc?”
Fuckin’ prick!
Fuckin’ Shit!

My friend Jane has ‘IBS’ too
She majored in psychology
She tells me it’s mental
I suppose… I believe her
There’s medicine for it, for chicks
She takes it
So she’s much better now
She can shit, that’s nice
Fuckin’ bitch!
So be it, face it, it’s mental
Thanks, now what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?
Fancy knowledge
Fuckin’ Shit!

My mother used to tell me stories
Of how when I was a child
I wouldn’t pass gas
Because… because I was afraid I’d shit my pants
She actually took me to the doctor for this
And my Aunt used to sing a little song
When she wanted to make fun of me

For being wrong… or when I told her I thought something
She’d ask me the rhetorical question
Anytime I said something like “Well I thought”
And she’d say “Well you know what thought did, right?”
“It thought it passed gas but it pooped it’s pants”
And she’d get a big ole giggle out of it
Fuckin’ Bitch!
Fuckin’ Shit!

Yeah, saturn comes back around
I am now, just like I was then
And I can’t shit again
These days I exercise

Not to be healthier

Or even to look better

But because if I don’t

I can’t shit

Funny how life hands us what we need

Whether we accept it willingly or not

Fuckin’ Shit!

I sigh
And pray to understand why
Just so I can shit
Is that too much to ask?
Is it not my own ass?
Fuckin’ Shit!
 
ⓒ 2005 Shawn Michael Quinn

Entered

You enter into me

And every memory resurfaces

I’m penetrated

By your voice, your echo, your stare

I’m powerless and impotent

As I pretend not to care

I owe you nothing

But the time it will take to remove you

Your heart, unsure

Your intentions, anything but pure

And I long only to purge you

Like sucking salt from the healing wound

Your ignorance floats like a gift

It’s smell cancels out any bitterness

But still here I am

Suffocating and sinking down

Amongst my rage blurring

You are Not worth my cringing

The memories are mine

And the ability to forget

Is better than fine

ⓒ 2005 Shawn Michael Quinn